Dr. Nick’s Reflection: "The Gift That Keeps on Gagging"
There are moments when I walk into my house after a long day and think, Maybe today will be peaceful. Maybe the corgis will greet me sweetly. Maybe the house will smell normal. Maybe—just maybe—I won’t immediately regret being a dog dad to five tail-less, drama-filled, chaos-creating herders.
And then there are the other days. The days where Cooper and Baxter decide to welcome me home with what can only be described as a crime against the senses.
Now, I don’t know what kind of psychological bonding experience these two have formed with poop, but it’s disturbing. It’s not enough that they eat it. Oh no. That would be too easy. These two tiny degenerates take it one step further—they eat it... and then they puke it back up. On the rug. On the hardwood. Near the door. Anywhere that guarantees maximum exposure to me the moment I walk in.
It’s like they see me pulling into the driveway and think, “He’s had a long day—let’s give him a surprise he’ll never forget. Something special. Something pungent.”
I opened the door today, took one breath, and immediately regretted every decision that has ever led me to this moment. The smell was so thick it practically had a personality. It introduced itself. Shook my hand. Took my lunch money. And then sucker-punched my dignity.
As I stood there, frozen in horror, the rest of the corgis were already playing their assigned roles in the unfolding drama.
Mogwai looked physically repulsed. He sat across the room with an expression that said, “I cannot be associated with this. I am a certified therapy dog. I deserve better.” He blinked slowly—only one eye, of course—and looked away in disappointment.
Winston couldn’t even bring himself to look at me. He turned his back, ears slightly pinned, radiating silent shame on behalf of the household. His refusal to make eye contact told me everything I needed to know: He’s not mad. He’s just disappointed.
Willow, in true dramatic fashion, walked straight into her kennel and shut the door herself. No prompting. No treats. Just pure, unfiltered sass. She didn’t even glance back as she muttered—yes, I’m convinced she muttered—“I’m done with all of you.”
And then, there were the culprits. Cooper and Baxter, sitting happily in the middle of the chaos, panting like nothing had happened. No remorse. No shame. Just the kind of joy that only comes from knowing you’ve gifted someone something truly unforgettable. Their eyes sparkled. Their tongues flopped. Their breath… oh dear God, their breath.
The cleanup process was theatrical. I gagged. I scrubbed. I lit candles. I sprayed half a bottle of “Mountain Mist” air freshener that now smells like minty poop-puke trauma. And yet, the smell has embedded itself into the very fibers of my soul. I swear I can still smell it—on my clothes, in my hair, maybe even in my dreams.
There is no tail between their legs. They don’t have tails. Just fat, fluffy butts and zero sense of personal hygiene boundaries.
And still, somehow... I love them. I love all five of these ridiculous, judgmental, opinionated, gloriously imperfect corgis. Even when they’re disgusting. Even when I’m dry-heaving into a mop bucket. Even when I find myself Googling, “How much is too much poop for a dog to eat before you need to contact NASA?”
This is my life. This is my circus. These are my clowns. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Except maybe for one evening where the house doesn’t smell like regret.
But I digress. Time to Febreze my soul again.
Disclaimer: My house even with Five Corgis smells fresh 99.2% of the time…
— Dr. Nick
No tails, no shame, just chaos.
